How Many Times Can You Be Broken and Put Back Together?

A personal testimony of grief, survival, grace, family, and the Shepherd who still comes after the one

I turn 55 on June 18th.

I’ll be honest. There were moments in my life where 55 wasn’t guaranteed. Moments where things could have gone a completely different direction. Moments where they probably should have.

But here I am.

And I’ve been sitting with a question lately that I can’t shake.

How many times can a man be broken and put back together before he finally understands that Somebody is doing the putting back together?

Not luck. Not a coincidence. Not because I was strong enough, smart enough, tough enough, or stubborn enough.

God.

That’s the only answer that makes any real sense when I look back over my life.

Because when I look back honestly, I don’t just see survival. I see rescue. I see a God who kept showing up when I didn’t even understand He was there. I see grace in places I used to call accidents. I see mercy in moments I thought were just close calls. I see protection in seasons where I was too hurt, too angry, too confused, or too proud to even recognize it.

And the older I get, the more I realize something.

God wasn’t waiting for me to become perfect before He came after me.

He came after me while I was still wandering.

November 1983

I was twelve years old when my father died of a massive heart attack.

Just like that, he was gone. And nothing was ever the same after that.

My father was my everything. He wasn’t just my dad. He was the man I looked up to. The one I wanted to be around. The one whose presence made life feel steady. At twelve years old, I probably couldn’t have explained it that way, but I knew what I felt.

I knew I loved him. I knew I needed him. And I knew something inside me had changed the day he was gone.

Losing my father still hurts today. Every day. Almost like eternity.

That may sound hard to understand unless you have lost someone who helped hold your world together. But when a loss like that happens young, it does not just become a memory. It becomes part of you. You carry it into every season after that. You carry it into manhood. Into marriage. Into fatherhood. Into the moments when you wish he could have seen your children, your grandchildren, your family, your struggles, your growth, and the man you are still trying to become.

One day, everything feels normal. The next day, normal is gone.

I don’t think a twelve-year-old boy really knows how to grieve something like that. You just carry it. You grow up around it. You learn how to function with a hole in your chest and somehow convince yourself you’re fine.

But I wasn’t fine.

I was a boy who had lost his father.

And looking back now, I can see how that loss shaped parts of me I didn’t even understand for years.

The Years That Followed

After my father died, life kept moving. That’s the cruel thing about grief. The world doesn’t stop just because yours did.

People still go to work. Bills still come. School still happens. Families change. Homes change. Relationships change. And a young boy is expected to somehow adjust to a life he never asked for.

There were difficult years after that. Years I felt the weight, the confusion, the anger, and the absence of the man I wished was still there to guide me.

And like a lot of people, I learned how to survive before I learned how to heal.

There’s a difference.

Surviving means you keep moving. Healing means you finally let God touch the places you’ve been pretending don’t hurt anymore.

That took me a long time. Maybe it still is.

Anger, I Didn’t Know What to Do With

After my father died, life did not just become sad. It became complicated.

Two years later, my mom remarried. And I want to be clear — I wasn’t bitter about her moving on. She deserved to be happy. What I wasn’t prepared for was the man she brought home.

I’ll say this as nicely as I can. He called himself a Christian. At times a prophet. But he was everything you could imagine except what he claimed to be.

He called me a bastard. Told me he was my father now, and he was going to shape me. He got rid of everything I owned. Cut up my clothes. And anything I had left of my father — every single thing — was gone.

We fought almost daily. Fist fights. He called the police on me for things so ridiculous I don’t have words for it. Once, I was five minutes late coming home, and there was hell to pay.

But here’s where God showed up in the middle of that mess.

One of my dad’s closest friends happened to be the lead sergeant at the police department. When those officers showed up at our door, he stepped in. More than once. He defended me. I don’t know everything he said to my stepfather, but whatever it was — that man feared him. And I was grateful.

God placed my dad’s friend there. Right there. At exactly the right time.

From 1985 on, my life wasn’t so grand. Anger. Bitterness. Resentment. Rebellion. A downward spiral I’m not going to detail completely because some things don’t need to be spelled out — but they happened. And they shaped me. Both the bad of what was done to me and the bad of what I chose in response.

There’s a lot I didn’t mention. There’s a lot I’ll leave right there.

But God was with me through all of it. Even when I couldn’t see Him. Even when I wasn’t looking for Him.

He was there.

I look back now and realize something. Grief can make you sad, but unresolved grief can make you hard. It can make you guarded. It can make you defensive. It can make you think you are protecting yourself when really you are building walls that keep healing out, too.

I carried hurt into how I saw people. I carried anger into how I reacted. I carried bitterness into places it did not belong.

And like a lot of men, I probably called it strength when really it was unhealed pain wearing work boots.

That is not easy to admit. But it is true.

If you’ve been carrying anger you don’t know what to do with, I wrote about what happens when forgiveness doesn’t come easy — When You’ve Forgiven, But the Anger Keeps Coming Back.

The Families God Used

God never left me without somebody.

After my father died, He brought people into my life that I can only look back on now and see as part of His hand on me.

There was a married couple who stepped into my teenage years when I needed it most. They had their own family. Their own struggles. But they showed up for me when nobody else did. I gained three brothers and a sister out of that relationship, and an unforgettable mother figure who still means more to me than words can fully explain.

That kind of thing does not happen by accident.

They did not replace my father. Nobody could ever do that. But they helped me keep going. They gave me belonging. They gave me guidance. They gave me love. They gave me a place where I felt seen and accepted. Real family. Not pretend family. The kind that stays with you decades later, whether your last names match or not.

That is grace.

And then there was Bill.

The kids called him Buddy Bill. He came into my life during my first marriage, and when that marriage fell apart, and everything went with it — Bill was still there. Stern when he needed to be. And let me tell you he could be very stern. Compassionate when the moment called for it. And always a deaf ear when I just needed to talk.

That man poured into me in ways I’m still living off of today.

Bill is gone now. And there are days I wish he was still here — not for anything big. Just so I could look him in the eye and say thank you.

If you have a Bill in your life — tell them. Don’t wait.

My father was my first mentor. My older brother — whether he knew it or not — was someone I looked up to and leaned on more than I probably ever told him. And God kept placing people at exactly the right time throughout my life, because He knew what I needed even when I didn’t know how to ask for it.

I thank God for all of them.

November 2008

I was working out of town in Pennsylvania when the chest pains started.

I did what a lot of men do. I put it off. Told myself I was fine. Finished the job. Came home and finally told my wife what was going on.

She made sure I got to the hospital.

That weekend I was admitted. Monday morning they did a catheterization. I remember waking up in the recovery room and the doctor’s face was right in mine.

She said — “I don’t know how you did it. You have 99% blockage in the widow maker. There was a higher power watching over you.”

The widow maker.

Twenty-five years after my father died of a heart attack — in November — I almost went the same way. Same month. Same cause.

Except I didn’t.

I woke up. He didn’t get to.

I’ve thought about that a lot over the years. Why me. Why did I get to stay. What am I supposed to do with the time I almost didn’t have.

I don’t have a clean answer. But I know it wasn’t luck.

And here is where I have to be honest. You would think something like that would instantly change a person forever. You would think almost dying would make you wake up every single day completely surrendered to God, grateful for every breath, and permanently done with pride, fear, selfishness, and every other thing that keeps us stuck.

But real life does not always work that clean.

Sometimes God saves us physically before we are ready to fully surrender spiritually. Sometimes He gives us another chance and we still don’t fully understand the size of the grace we were just handed.

That was me.

I knew I had been spared. But I don’t know if I fully understood yet that I had been pursued.

I’ve written more about how God uses hard seasons to prepare us — God Was Preparing Me for This.

The Picture on My Living Room Wall

There is a picture hanging on my living room wall that I look at every day.

It is a picture of Jesus and the ninety-nine sheep.

But what gets me is the one sheep off in the distance.

That one sheep is separated from the rest. Out there alone. Wandering. Away from safety. Away from the flock. Maybe not even realizing the danger it is in.

And Jesus is headed that way. Not standing still. Not waiting for the sheep to figure it out. Not yelling from a distance for it to come back.

He is moving toward the one.

“Suppose one of you has a hundred sheep and loses one of them. Doesn’t he leave the ninety-nine others in the wilderness and go to search for the one that is lost until he finds it?” — Luke 15:4 NLT

That verse hits different when you have a picture of it hanging in your home. It is one thing to read the story. It is another thing to see it every day and realize you might be looking at your own life.

When I look at that one sheep off in the distance, I see myself.

I see the boy who lost his father. I see the young man who carried hurt he didn’t know how to explain. I see the man who survived a 99% blockage and still didn’t fully understand the size of the mercy he had been given. I see the husband, father, and Papa who has been broken, scared, stubborn, grateful, and still somehow pursued by God.

Jesus comes after the one.

And I believe He came after me.

In and Out

I’ve been in and out of church more times than I care to admit.

Before I found my way into youth ministry I coached little league baseball. Pouring into kids on the field, showing up for them, being that consistent presence in their lives. Looking back I think God was preparing me for what came next.

Eventually I found my way into youth ministry at church and it became one of the most rewarding things I’ve ever done. You pour into a kid and you don’t always see the return. But God does.

And then Covid hit. It broke the rhythm. Life filled the gap. And if I’m being honest — I let it. I tell myself I don’t have time. But somewhere in the back of my mind I know the real answer to that question. And it convicts me.

I believe God placed me in front of young people — on the baseball field, in the church, in the community — for a reason.

I just have to decide if I’m still available for that assignment.

If that conviction hits close to home, read this — The World Doesn’t Need More Sunday Christians.

Annita

I’ve been married and divorced. And I’ll be honest — I wasn’t always the innocent party. I had my part in it. I own that. I’m not proud of it but I own it.

The people in my life have had to deal with both versions of me. The good Mike and the bad Mike. And there were seasons where the bad Mike showed up more than he should have.

Fast forward to today.

Annita and I have been married 18 years. And I know for her that hasn’t always been easy. This woman has taught me more than almost anyone else in my life — directly and indirectly. She has shown me what humility looks like. What quiet strength looks like. What it means to just keep showing up even when it’s hard.

And honestly? I’m still a little shocked she’s here.

Because I know how undeserving I am of her.

She didn’t need me. Let me make that clear. When we met she was independent. Employed. Stable. A single mom raising a young son on her own. She had her life together. People loved her. People adored her.

She wasn’t looking to be rescued. She didn’t need anything from me.

I think God knew I needed her.

When we married she didn’t just take on me — she took on my four kids. My oldest son and three daughters. And let me tell you that was not always a walk in the park. But you should see the love she has for every single one of them. The way they relate to her. The way they came to her. That’s not something you manufacture. That’s something God grows in a person.

She also has her son — now married with a beautiful young daughter of his own.

And now? Now she’s a grandma. Granny. Grandma Nini.

Let me tell you something about what happens when Granny walks into the room. Papa becomes completely powerless. I mean completely. The grandkids love me — but mostly when they need me to get to her. And I say that with so much love because watching her with those grandkids is one of the greatest joys of my life. If you want to know what grandchildren do to a man’s heart — and what they quietly teach you about God — read this: What Grandchildren Teach You About God

She is the rock of this family. The foundation. Her love doesn’t stop at our front door either — it spills out to everyone around her. Friends. Neighbors. Strangers. People are just drawn to her.

She was a gift I didn’t earn and a blessing I didn’t deserve.

That’s grace.

I think God knew I needed her. And I thank Him for her every single day.

I love her more today than I did yesterday. And I would argue this until my last breath of air: I love you more.

I wrote about what it means to have a woman like this — God Has Given Me a Godly Wife.

Broken and Restored by God — What’s Still Standing

As I turn 55, there is something I have to say clearly.

I am blessed.

My children — Cameron, Brittany, Brandon, Courtney, and McKenzie.

My grandchildren — Maren, Owen, Emma, Grayson, Bristol, Mila, and the youngest, Evelyn.

That is my family. That is what life is about. I wrote them a letter not long ago — the things I’m not always good at saying out loud. If you haven’t read it yet: What I Need You to Know — A Letter to My Children

Not money. Not stuff. Not titles. Not chasing things that will never love you back.

Family is worth more than any dollar in this world. And the only thing worth more than what I just mentioned is Jesus Christ, our Lord and Savior.

I’ve made small mistakes and big ones. I’ve been broken more times than I can count. And every single time — God put me back together. Not perfectly. Not without scars. But back together.

At 55, I don’t want to measure my life by what I own. I want to measure it by who I loved, who I helped, who I showed up for, and whether my life pointed my family toward Christ.

Because when everything else fades, that is what remains.

God. Faith. Family. Love. Grace.

That is the treasure.

Why This Blog Exists

I started Faith For Real Life back in March, but the truth is, the idea had been on my mind for years.

I’ve always felt a pull to be more vocal. Not loud just to be loud. Not just adding more noise to a world that already has enough of it. But real. Common sense. Real life. Real faith. Something meaningful. Something honest.

That is really what the title says.

Faith For Real Life.

Not faith for perfect people. Not faith for people who have it all figured out. Not faith that only works on Sunday morning inside a church building. Faith for real life. The messy kind. The tired kind. The struggling kind. The kind you need when the bills come, the heart gets heavy, the family gets complicated, and you are just trying to figure out how to keep going without losing yourself.

Right after I started this blog, my nephew Brian began walking through some seasons of his own. And I’ll be honest — some of what he has gone through has been hard to watch because it feels like looking in a mirror and seeing parts of my own life again.

Brian is my nephew, but in a lot of ways, he feels more like a brother to me. He is blood. He is family. And there is a bond there that matters deeply.

His dad is my brother — someone I have looked up to and still look up to today. I don’t even know if he has any idea what I think of him or what he has meant in my life. Even during the years when we weren’t as close or when life kept us apart, that bond was never broken in me.

Our father still dwells in us today.

Now Brian and I are both grown men. Broken in some ways. Blessed in others. Carrying families, responsibilities, daily struggles, and all the things life throws at you, while expecting you to act like you have it under control.

When I discovered what Brian was walking through, something in me knew this blog did not have to be just mine.

That is when I decided we should do this together. And Brian agreed.

Yes, it is one more thing added to an already crazy, busy life for both of us. But maybe that is part of why it matters. Because this gives us a reason to sit back, reflect, write, pray, and look at the good, the bad, and the ugly through the eyes of faith instead of just letting life beat us down and move on.

This helps us too.

Writing forces you to slow down long enough to see what God has been doing. It makes you look at the pain instead of just stuffing it somewhere. It makes you remember the good. It makes you admit the bad. It makes you recognize grace in places you may have missed it before.

Our goal is simple. We want people to know they are not alone. They are not the only ones fighting battles nobody sees. They are not the only ones carrying regret, fear, pressure, confusion, grief, failure, or questions.

Faith is real. And Faith For Real Life is real.

We are not writing from perfection. We are writing from real life. And if even one post helps someone feel less alone, points someone back to God, or reminds someone that Jesus still comes after the one — then this is worth it.

Read Brian’s story here — Good News at Rock Bottom.

Maybe You’re the One Too

Maybe you know what it feels like to be the one.

The one who drifted. The one who looks fine on the outside but knows something is broken inside. The one who has survived things nobody fully knows about. The one who wonders why God would still bother. The one who has made mistakes and quietly wondered if grace still applies.

Let me tell you what I’m learning.

Yes, it still applies.

You are not too far gone. You are not too broken. You are not too old. You are not too late. You are not beyond the reach of the Shepherd.

Jesus does not just love the clean version of you. He loves the real you. The tired you. The scared you. The stubborn you. The one still trying to figure it out.

And when He comes after you, it is not to shame you.

It is to bring you home.

There is light at the end of the tunnel. There is hope beyond the noise. There is grace for broken people. There is strength for tired people. There is mercy for people who have made mistakes. There is a Savior who still comes after the one.

And if forgiveness is part of what’s holding you back — Forgiveness Doesn’t Care What Gender You Are.

Jesus is coming. When? That is the surprise.

But I will say this — be ready. Or get ready.

Final Thought

I don’t know how many more years God will give me. None of us do.

But I know this. I don’t want to waste the years I have left pretending I got here on my own.

I didn’t.

I have been broken more than once. Scared more than once. Corrected more than once. Rescued more than once.

And every time I thought I was done, God was still writing.

So maybe the question was never really, “How many times can you be broken and put back together?”

Maybe the better question is this:

How many times can God show you mercy before you finally stop calling it luck?

“And I am certain that God, who began the good work within you, will continue his work until it is finally finished on the day when Christ Jesus returns.” — Philippians 1:6 NLT

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Prayer

Lord, thank You for coming after me when I didn’t even realize how lost I was.

Thank You for protecting me, correcting me, carrying me, and putting broken pieces back together in ways only You could.

Thank you for my father and the love that still lives in me. Thank You for the people You placed in my life when I needed guidance, belonging, and family. Thank You for Annita, my children, my grandchildren, Brian, and every blessing I do not deserve but deeply cherish.

Forgive me for the times I called Your mercy a coincidence. Forgive me for the times I tried to lead my own life without fully surrendering to You.

Help me use whatever years You give me with purpose. Help me love my family better. Help me lead with humility. Help me speak truth with grace. Help me become the man You have been patiently shaping me to be.

And for anyone reading this who feels lost, broken, tired, or too far gone — remind them that the Shepherd still comes after the one.

In Jesus’ name, amen.